


The Past Is In The Way

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Forced Drinking, Gang Rape, Lots of Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Mycroft has a past that stands between him and the future. Letting it out takes courage.





	The Past Is In The Way

I've always been a loner. Never one for friends. 

The closest I have as a companion is Anthea, my assistant. She's a constant confidant in my dealings with government issues and also my private life.

I lead a very controlled life, indulging in tailor-made clothes, dining in the best inns and lounges, traveling first class. Nothing out of place. All in all, the best of everything.

* * *

What is important to me? My work! I'm involved with the British government, fully invested in all phases of the workings and manipulations. Not many people know how deep it runs. 

I travel extensively, working with politicians, ambassadors, kings, and sitting with the Queen is almost a must at least once a month if I'm in town.

* * *

With all my fancy trappings, houses, cars, servants, I sometimes feel the need for companionship. No one seems to meet my high expectations.

* * *

Of course, there's younger brother, Sherlock, although considering him a friend is a fallacy.  
I'm very attached to him and watch over him constantly.  


But, Sherlock is content to see me as his enemy and has tended towards a drug addiction over the years, cocaine in particular.

He's exceptionally brilliant, a talented man but is wild and uncontrollable. Rude, demanding, beautiful looking since he was born. He attracts attention wherever he goes.  
He bores quickly, and the cocaine and cigarettes tame him. It's always the cocaine that gets him into difficulties.

* * *

And that's where my story begins. With Sherlock and a police detective by the name of Greg Lestrade.

* * *

A phone call from a Detective Inspector Lestrade brings me to Bart's Hospital on a rainy evening.  


He had found Sherlock lying in an alley, overdosing on cocaine, and got him to the hospital in his private car.

My number showed up on my brother's mobile phone which I always provided, even when he purposely would break it to annoy me.

* * *

Finding the best doctors on such short notice, having them at the hospital to treat Sherlock was my first priority.

Once that was arranged I walk into the hospital the next day and directed to Sherlock's room see another man sitting next to my brother.

* * *

          "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. My name is Greg Lestrade. I'm the one that found your brother and brought him here", he stands to shake my hand.

          "Can't thank you enough, Inspector is it?" ignoring the hand and giving him a cursory glance.

Sherlock is partially awake, his eyelids flutter slightly open then shut. He's not lucid enough to make comments.

* * *

A nurse enters the room and I direct her to the breakfast cloche still sitting on the table.

          "Please be more attentive to removing the dishes sitting here. Lunch is about ready to come in and my brother doesn't need to smell old food."

Lestrade sniggers, turning his back on the nurse as she huffily removes the dirty dish.

* * *

          "I see you have everything under control here. The doctors told me that your brother would recover. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep an eye on him also."

          "Come outside, Inspector."

Without another word, walking out first, assuming he'll join me I open the door and we both exit.

          "You're quite free to leave."

          "Dismissing me like that, are you? Well, I find him quite entertaining and damn intelligent. I think he's managed to insult every doctor and nurse that's come in contact with him."

          "He's a hard one to keep up with but your kindness has been noted," beginning to swing the door to Sherlock's room open.

* * *

          "Noted? Do I go in your 'good boy' book?"

I swivel around, hand still on the door, noting his eyes twinkling, blue eyes at that, his mouth turned up.

          "Mister Lestrade, was it? That will be all, thank you."

          "Just a minute, Mister Holmes, you don't turn me away that easy. Your brother, I consider partly my charge now. And it's Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade if you care to know."

Now he's perked up my interest. Here's a man willing to stand toe to toe with me.

I stop, shut the door and look directly at Gregory Lestrade.

* * *

At least six feet, slim, in his late fifties, nice features, and silver-grey hair still with the curl in it. One could call him a pleasing, handsome man.  
My hand goes out to him and he takes it, with a firmness that suggests confidence.

* * *

          "Mycroft Holmes. And yes, I welcome your friendship concerning my brother."

          "Your parents had strange ideas about first names. Oh, I meant no harm in that," an embarrassed laugh which is surprisingly light sounding.  


          "DI Lestrade, Gregory, your attention to our unusual nom de plumes is not the first in our lifetimes and won't be the last."

* * *

We enter the room together and Sherlock's eyebrows raise into the air, and in a whispered voice," well, well, a partnership is born. Who can keep Sherlock from being an addict? Is that the deal? I've never been one. Only use when bored."

Both Gregory and I ignore that statement.

* * *

Upon leaving the hospital I have to be at my office and once the door closes I upload Lestrade's files to inquire more about this very engaging, appealing man.

During the next few years, I watch Gregory and Sherlock form a father-son friendship. 

* * *

Sherlock finds himself enamored with solving criminal cases and Gregory keeps his mind suitably occupied by allowing the young man to join him at crime scenes.

In time Doctor John Watson enters Sherlock's life, moves in with him and becomes a companion and friend, joining in the crime-solving.

Gregory and I have, on many occasions been thrown together during crimes that involve any government dealings. But it's brief and not personal.

* * *

Growing up in a low-income family, he's worked diligently to become who he is now and by all accounts has an essential role in the department.

Now divorced and living in a small flat by himself.

I'm with Gregory investigating a corpse found on the second floor of an office who's been shot in the back.

The dead man is a minor member of the legislature staff, and I'm reassured by the police it will be kept quiet for three days.

* * *

The police are gone, Sherlock and John having already left in a cab.

The rain is falling in torrents, wind blowing in all directions.

* * *

My car is right outside the door of the office building, and understanding that the Inspector has no ride I find myself being polite.

          "Gregory, would you like a ride home?"

          "Thanks, but I'll wait for a taxi."

          "What a waste of time! And you'll never get one in this weather," trying my best not to be too persuasive.

          "Okay, Mycroft. As usual, you win."

          "Do you call this winning?"

          "You always have a way of getting what you want."

If he only knew.

* * *

We enter the car, my driver pulling out into the street traffic and giving the address of Gregory's flat.

He's surprised, furnishes me with his smile.

          " But then, you are Sherlock's brother. All information is stored in his mind palace and I'm sure you have the same capabilities."

* * *

          "Not quite the same as his. He tends towards the melodramatic, as you well know."

After two months abroad, I make my way home again.

* * *

The mobile rings, and with impatience at seeing the caller, I answer.

          "Yes mummy. How are you?

          "Come spend two days with your mother? I need your company."

          "I'll be there tomorrow with bells on."

          "You're usual fresh self, I see."

Time for the obligatory visit.

* * *

          "Mycroft, why can't you find yourself a person to spend your life with?"

          "You know it's not that easy. I travel and most people want you home more than two months out of the year."

          "I'm sure there's someone-"

          "A lot of good it did for you. Daddy took off." 

A subject rehashed and rehashed many a time.

* * *

          "Mycroft dear, I had you two boys."

Wrapping her arms around my neck while I'm sitting trying to read the newspaper, I shrug her politely off.

          "You're not young anymore, and you shouldn't be afraid of commitment just because your father and I didn't do well."

Finding my suit jacket and putting it on, I give a little peck on the cheek.

          "Mummy, time to say goodbye. Otherwise, we'll argue."

Kissing her on the cheek, I walk out the door.

* * *

This discussion, about finding someone, reminds me of Gregory Lestrade. Never imagining him for other than an occasional companion. 

* * *

I'm on my mobile calling to his office, it rings and goes to voicemail. No. Not going to leave a message. I don't want to chance it that a colleague of his might check his voicemails..

* * *

I ring his flat.

          "Hello Gregory, it's Mycroft Holmes."

          "Hi. Is there a problem? Is Sherlock in trouble?"

          "No, Gregory. I have two tickets to see Hamlet with Benedict Cumberbatch. It would honor me if you could join me for that night."

          "Can't get any of your comrades, you know those blokes who run the government to go? Oh shit, sorry. Just surprised you would call me of all people."

          "I'd like - it's all right Gregory. I understand. Good night."

There's a shout as I'm ready to hang up.

          " No, no, don't hang up. Sorry. My big mouth again. I'd love to go with you. I know Hamlet. Give me the details as to where and when."

* * *

At the theatre, through the doors, I give a nod to the box office woman, who responds in kind, and an usher escorts us upstairs to my box.

* * *

          "Let me guess. Season tickets."

          "My family has had this box for years."

* * *

Greg leans forward, arms on the railing, his immersion with people watching is enthralling to me. As a policeman, he would be detail oriented.

* * *

An attendant brings a bottle of champagne, an ice bucket stand and two glasses.

* * *

          "Shi- I mean, wow, Mycroft I've never been treated so royally."

          "It's refreshing to view all this through new eyes."

          "I guess you mean eyes that are not bored by the grandeur of it."

So refreshing this man! My colleagues wouldn't give a moments thought to the trappings that now surround us.

* * *

Glass in hand, we toast the evening, and the curtain rises.

Out of the corner of my eye, I occasionally eye Gregory to gauge his reaction.

He's in tune with every detail, every movement on the stage. So much so, I have disappeared from his view.

I'm more than ecstatic that I thought to invite Gregory for this show.

* * *

Intermission arrives, and the attendant brings in chocolate truffles and little honey cakes. Gregory is both amused and overwhelmed.

          "I almost want to say, 'bring on the dancing girls' at this point."

          "Sorry, what is that supposed to imply?"

          "Oh dear Mycroft, you do live in a cocoon, don't you? It means that you've bought everything else out to play and the dancing girls would be the topper of the evening. Along with possibly some hanky-panky."

Damn, Greg, you put your foot in that! Again!

          "Pardon me, Gregory. Hanky-panky? Oh! Yes, well-"

Gregory covers up his mirth with a popping of a truffle in his mouth.

* * *

          "One notable surprise yet to come, Gregory,"

His joy, his childlike approach, I could bask in for many a day. He's a little boy, wide-eyed. All the trappings I take as every day, he is allowing me to review over.

* * *

The show over, curtain calls done, I walk down the steps and into the backstage area.

* * *

Greg whispers, excitement lacing his question," Are we going to meet Mister Cumberbatch?"

The attendant is walking ahead clearing the way for us. Scenery being moved, costumed actors, running, walking, talking. With Gregory to my left, I watch his head, side to side, enthusiastic over each piece passing us. At one point he stops an actor and asks about the play and how he felt working there. The sheer newness struck him as a learning tool. 

* * *

The attendant opens a door and we've been ushered into a dressing room. Standing up, still in costume, is Benedict Cumberbatch.

          " So happy to see you again, Mycroft."

          "May I introduce you to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." I move slightly off to the side to let them chat.

* * *

Once out of the theatre and back in the car Greg is impressed again, that child-like quality when he hands me a picture of Cumberbatch with his autograph.

          "Wait until Sally sees this, she'll be hysterical. She's one of my Sargents."

          "It's amazing watching you move in these circles. You were born to it."

          "Greg, it comes from years of hard work. And knowing the right people."

          "I'm positive having the right connections from your parents helps." I nod and smile to myself.

* * *

I let Gregory out at his flat, ready to drive off when there's a knock on the car window and opening it to hear Gregory state to me.

          "I'm thankful for this evening. Maybe you would want to get together again?"

          "I'll check my schedule. I'm traveling these next few months."

          "I understand." And I do. Why would Mycroft want to spend time with me? After all, I have no money and indeed no connections with the hoi polloi.

* * *

My work takes me to France and then Switzerland. I text a picture of the Alps to Gregory. He's remained in my conscientiousness almost every day, and a photo was one way to keep in touch.

* * *

I'm surprised to see the picture from Mycroft. I've thought about him occasionally. Even with that icy exterior, I'm beginning to see he's very likable but distant to most people. Texting back that someday I'd love to view the mountains in person, he sends more images.

* * *

Once back from traveling I settle into my routine in London, most nights I'm in my office very late, sometimes Anthea staying with me.

          "Mycroft, why not go home now. It's only paperwork that's left and can be taken care of in the morning. She's right, but what it there at home interesting enough for me. It's eleven o'clock, will Gregory be agreeable to a late night as I text him. Why not try?

          _Gregory, hello_

          _Hey Mycroft what's up_  


          _I know it's late, forgive me. Are you occupied with anything of importance at the moment, and if not, would you care to join me for a late night dessert_

          _Sitting home watching stupid tv. Where for dessert_

          _My house. I made a cinnamon apple pie last night._

          _Do you have vanilla ice cream and chocolate hot fudge?_

          _No, my driver can purchase them when he comes to get you_

          _Sure thing, give me ten minutes to get decent, and I'll be ready_

          _See you soon_

* * *

I find myself delirious with happiness. I have a friend!

* * *

What the hell is going on? Why is Mycroft taking an interest in me? I see no advances on his part as far as sexual. Maybe the guy is only lonesome.

* * *

I enter the house, shown by a butler, or whatever he is, to the sitting room.

         "Sheesh, don't you ever get out of a suit? I always see you in three-piecers." There you go again, shooting off your mouth!

         "I only just arrived home myself." And I proceed to take off my jacket and vest. My servant brings in the warmed up pie, tea and cuts slices of warmed up dessert for us. He hesitates about the ice cream.

         "Hey, let me do this," Gregory says so enthusiastically that I again see the kid in a candy store. The ice cream scooper in hand he grabs a big dollop out and places it on both slices.

         "Do you want some hot fudge Mycroft?"

         "Why not. Let's live a little." And lots of hot fudge is splashed onto the ice cream by Gregory, laughing as he does it with a flicker of the spoon.

* * *

I motion for Gregory to take one of the cushiony chairs and I the other near him. There's a sizeable cream-colored sofa near a fireplace. I would never think of sitting there to eat anything, let alone this sloppy dessert.

         "Now this is different even for me. I've never eaten apple pie and ice cream in such an elegant setting, and so late at night," Gregory says as he takes note of his surroundings. I pour tea for both of us, and we quietly enjoy the food.

* * *

I don't want him to leave. It's satisfying to have another person in the house.

         "If you're not tired, Gregory, I have a theater in the house. We can watch a movie." Gregory's eyes open wide. "A theater? In the house? No, this I have to see!"

* * *

Leaving the empty plates and pie, I stand and beckon him to follow me downstairs.

         "Was once a basement but I had this converted to a theater years ago."

         "Shit, oh, I mean wow," as I stand in a half dark room with theater seats for at least twelve people and a full-size screen.

         "I know you like, as I do, murder mysteries. Pick one out of the list, Gregory." I get handed a list of movies and pick Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca.

         "Good, I haven't seen that one yet," I reply as I press the buttons at the back console.

         "Before we watch, can I ask a favor?" My head bobbing up and down, he continues,"Call me Greg, not Gregory. Can I call you Myc?"

Funny, I've never had anyone ask to compress my name into it's diminutive.

         " You're hesitating. Forget it. I'll call you Mycroft."

         "No, no Gregory, I mean Greg. You surprised me. Call me Myc, please."

Placing the DVD in the machine, and finding the right buttons to begin the movie I see Greg finding a seat. I take the one next to him.

         "We'll have tea sent down to us." 

* * *

We're both engrossed in the movie, and to my astonishment, I detect Greg's hand on my thigh. I stiffen up. What to do? I don't want to offend him by removing it, but on the other hand, do I condone this action? I elect to leave it there and see what occurs.

Concentration comes hard. His hand is warm, making my thigh heat up, almost as if he were leaving his print mark on me.

Before the ending of the movie, he moves his arm away from me and back to his lap, and I let out a sigh of relief. 

          "Very good movie and in typical Hitchcock style. I forgot that I was in someone's house, someone's private theatre and enjoyed." I turn on the lights, to watch Greg stand, stretch, and yawn.

* * *

         "I'll have the car drive you home," in as noncommitted voice as I could muster.

         "You make a fantabulous apple pie," as Greg gives out with a big smile.

* * *

After he's gone I wander up to my bedroom. I'm pondering what transpired this evening. Men don't typically touch each other. Was this within reason in Greg's sphere? Considered a norm? I'll have to investigate further. I cherished this evening.

* * *

London's winter is hard this year. I escape to Lisbon to wait it out, but I find myself apathetic and mopish without work to do. 

* * *

          _Greg, how are you surviving the winter there? I'm in Lisbon._

          _Hey lucky you with all your dough. I'm sticking it out as usual._

          _Could you join me for a week here?_

No answer. I gather that he's shocked or can't make it.

* * *

          _Sorry for the delay. I was clearing my calendar. God yes, I would love it! Love to get someplace warm_

          _Good, tomorrow a car will take you to the airport to my private plane, and you will be met by another car at the Lisbon airport._

          _Loved being spoiled. Send me the details please_

As I text all valid information I begin to regret this move. Will Greg think I'm coming on to him, as people say? Making advances? Am I? What is my interest in Greg Lestrade?

* * *

I'm not enlightened on today's social mores. I do find him attractive. And yes, I know I prefer men to women. But-I haven't had any relationship since I was seventeen. I've been involved in government politics to the point of leaving all else out. And that's how I find myself in a position of significant power.

* * *

What do I think I'm doing, as I pack some clothes in a worn-out suitcase? I'm going on holiday, last minute, with a man I know nothing about, well, practically nothing. Socially I can't keep up at all. Me, Greg Lestrade, simple guy from the slums.

Yes, I'm attracted to him but taken aback by it, after all, I'd married a woman and lived with her for fifteen years. I had fooled around with men somewhat before I met my wife, but it was in fun. And a learning experience for me.

* * *

To find me wondering, daydreaming, how Mycroft would appear without clothes on has me bewildered. I placed my hand on his thigh while we watched the movie strictly on impulse and was blown away when he let it lay there. Now, what happens?

Private cars, a personal plane all so intimidating to me. And when we arrive at the villa I'm blown out of the water. Villa? More like a palace is on the beach, a winding driveway takes you to the front door. An oval entranceway that is all orange stucco and plants.

* * *

Before I get to the door Mycroft meets me, standing, hesitant about how to greet me. Will he shake hands, hug me? Personally, I feel the same. We stand and just stare.

         "Aha! No suit! You've come down a notch!" 

My way of breaking the ice. Mycroft is wearing a white linen shirt and khaki trousers. He looks like, well, a male I'd like to kiss. But don't.

I've got a green plaid shirt and blue jeans, sneakers and a light grey jacket on me.

         "Greg, how about a drink before dinner?" quickly leading me inside to see an oval entryway, big, big glass towards the back reviewing the ocean.

* * *

Without waiting for a response, I lead him to the back of the house and out to the veranda. Five tables are set up with large colorful umbrellas to shade the sun. We take a seat, and my servant stands in front of us.

He's wide-eyed. Taking it all in.

The swimming pool on the right and straight ahead is the beach itself.

The surf is relatively quiet now, with a breeze stirring the trees.

         "Mojito for me, and how about you Greg?"

         "I'll have the same, thanks,"

* * *

He's trying so hard not to be in awe of his surroundings. I'm more intent on his thoughts about me. If he's willing to join me here, I have to assume he finds me congenial.

         "Are you tired? Was your trip satisfactory?"

         "Yeah, being the only one on the plane, being treated like a king, what do you expect me to say, and no, I'm not ready to sleep, not yet."

         "Good, Then we'll have a full dinner out here tonight. I thought if the plane ride tired you I'd have a light meal sent to your room."

* * *

A quiet descends on us. It's awkward. I surmise that to Greg this is intimidating and seems like an assignation.

Isn't it? Can't be. I can't have intimate relations with anyone. Not now. Not ever.

* * *

Dinner is a fresh green salad, baked salmon, caramelized onions and some honey sauce, roasted garlic potatoes, and asparagus wrapped in bacon, and is followed by a jam parfait with grilled peaches. We have our choice of wine. A fruity Rose or a Pinot Gris.

Our chatter is just that, light and easy-going, finally spontaneous, and at one point I keep Greg laughing with my version of a conference I had been to with some stuffy ambassadors.

* * *

Our dinner over, the light fading from the sky, I ask Greg if he wants to retire to the sitting room.

         "To tell you the truth, I'd rather go to bed and read for awhile, that is if you don't mind?"

         "Of course not Greg. Let's get up, and I'll show you to your room. Your bags will be there and unpacked."

Back into the house and over to the right where the hallway has four doors. I open a door and show Greg his room as I turn on the light.

         "Holy fuck, Mycroft! This is-wow!"

* * *

There I am looking at a king-size bed, armoire, night tables, and a door leading to a bathroom. The room is, as everything Mycroft, opulent, all pale green and white. But the most striking feature is the open double doors leading out to the beach. The shore curves around to give a sample of the city, all glimmering lights.

Breathless with wonder, with the sheer elegance of my location, I don't have words. How some people live, is one of the running thoughts.

Turning to Mycroft,"this is too good for me. I'm living a dream."

         "Enjoy your dream," I say so softly, not wanting to spoil it for him, "You'll be called to breakfast on the veranda at nine am. Goodnight."

* * *

And as Mycroft closes the door I'm feeling excellent about this holiday. I explore the room. The maid has put my clothes away, laid out my PJs and even has a book on the bed.  
The bathroom has a full-size jacuzzi tub beside all the necessaries. Washing up, changing into my PJs and finding myself in bed with what must be high-priced sheets, six pillows and a down comforter I settle in for the night. The sound of the waves lull me off to sleep.

* * *

As I walk onto the veranda, sun shining, Greg is already sitting there, a newspaper in hand. We greet each other good morning. I'm very nervous about this venture. Still not sure it is a good idea.

I don't know what to say, what to do next.

         "I'm surprised to see you up this early but glad."

         "I set my alarm. Why waste a minute in bed when all this is accessible. And besides, I felt the need to beat you at something," the most charming smile crosses his face.

          "It's not hard to find something that you can beat-"and I stop. His face has turned pink. He's blushing. 

         " Always shooting my mouth off. I didn't mean it to be derogatory."

          "Again, I find your witticism amusing to me. Most people are afraid to speak their thoughts," as I am to you. Gathering my wits, changing the subject, "How about a tour of the city and some of its museums today?" 

If only Mycroft knew that I was blushing because his mentioning hard, and looking down at my shorts had me rising up. Did he do that on purpose?

          "I think that would be fun."

* * *

The days slide by in comfortable companionship. My worries are unfounded. There've been no advances on Greg's part, and I keep my feelings to myself.

* * *

I'm happy with the way things are going. Mycroft is very content with my company, and we've settled into an easy-going relationship.

* * *

Greg loves to swim and finds both the pool and ocean invigorating. I don't like the salt water, but the pool is where I take laps while Greg is in the sea water.

* * *

The next to last evening of our stay here, it's after dinner and I had gone into my study to send out a few notes, finally I go looking for Greg.

I step out onto the veranda, the only light a small one near the pool and the quarter moon. Greg is bent over, faced away from me, turns when he hears me.

He's nude, drying himself off with a towel, which quickly goes around his middle. Both of us are mute and stunned. I turn away as Greg says,"Sorry Mycroft, I didn't think you were coming out, so I went skinny dipping."

He walks around to face me, the towel wrapped around his waist and asks,"Have you ever skinny dipped?"

It's the sight and thrill of Greg a-natural that grips me. At that moment I want him. But, no, not happening.

         "No, I have not."

         "Why don't you do so now? There's no one around except us, and the feeling on your skin is so nice. The ocean is where its best. Come on, try it."

         "No, sorry Greg."I turn and leave the veranda, then switch back.

         "I would like to try," as I turn out the light by the pool leaving only the little light from the moon. Greg looks to the pool, giving me the opportunity to strip without his eyes focused on me. I'm still aware of his body a few feet from me. I walk down to the water line, Greg waiting til I'm waist high before joining me.

I haven't looked at him at all. If he could see me, he would realize my cheeks are red, embarrassment shown, but the light is dim. Maneuvering next to me, his eyes on my face, "let's swim down to the pier, and come back."

Yes, it's refreshing to have nothing between you and the ocean. A very freeing aspect.

* * *

Now comes the awkward part. How to get out of the water. Greg solves that by walking out first and over to the outdoor shower.  


          "Come on out," he yells.  
I hesitantly do and find him seated and dressed, at a table with his back to the ocean and me.  
Cleaning up and clothes on, I sit down with him.

         "That was noteworthy enough that I would undertake it again. Great experience Greg."

         "My aunt and uncle owned a house in the country, and we would go there occasionally as children during the summer with my parents. They had a small pond at the far end of the property, and I loved to jump in on the hot days. If I was alone I skinny dipped. Of course, with all my sisters around it was hard. I did get caught a few times. Once- oh never mind." 

Getting into too much personal stuff, Greg.

* * *

My face dips towards him, questioningly. Or maybe I shouldn't pry.

         "Okay if you must know, one of my sisters, an older one caught me and taunted me to get out and let her see my penis. I wouldn't, but she persisted by staying. When I finally got out she-she-played with me and made me orgasm. I was fourteen at the time, and the experience shook me." 

Placing my head between my hands, when I speak next I muffle the sound in my hands. Way too personal, Greg.

         "We had sex a few times. No intercourse, but making each other, you know-. Wow! What the fuck made me tell you that?"

I know I have to say something meaningful.

         "Confession time. I had an experience with a neighbors daughter when I was the same age. It was all fumbling but no intercourse." 

Tension breaks as we laugh together at our childhood memories.

* * *

The next day we leave Lisbon together after breakfast, and I drive Greg right to the police station and head to the office.

          _Greg, it was terrific. please keep in touch._

          _I will and thanks for everything, you spoiled brat_

          _hmm, I think that's what you are becoming, Greg. grin_

* * *

Again the rigors of work keep me from seeing Greg. I do text him a quick hello from time to time and get a text back. He's on my mind whenever the pressure exasperates me.

* * *

Spring in London. Lots of rainy days and on a day after it seems the world will manage without me, I'm outside the police station waiting for Greg. He walks out, a surprise on his face when he sees my car. My driver steps out and places an umbrella over Greg. I roll down the window,"Greg, join me for dinner?"

My police colleagues are giving me snarky looks, but I ignore them and get into the car. My heart is racing. I know Mycroft is just looking for companionship, so stop this nonsense.

         "There's a good Thai restaurant if you're inclined towards that."

         "Damn straight, or whatever you wish."

* * *

Once in the restaurant, we see Sherlock and John sitting at a table, and John beckons us over. Sherlock looks annoyed at seeing his brother.

         "Join us, will you," John says, a warm smile on him.

         "Sure"-but I get overridden by Mycroft.

         "We'll sit at a different table. I'm sure my brother would be happier that way."

         "Mycroft, your heart is showing. Be careful Lestrade, Mycroft chews people up. Romance is not his cup of tea."

John smacks Sherlock in the arm. I'm flustered, and I know Mycroft is also. Mycroft leads to a table in the furthest corner away from the couple.

         "Forgive my brother." 

Laughing to ease the dramatics, "Oh believe me I know. Working on a case with the great Sherlock can be daunting. It's hard to keep my crew from punching him."

* * *

We eat in relative comfort although I know my brother's eyes are on me all the time. He can deduce people better than I, and he knows I'm involved deep down with Greg on more than just a friendship level, but I refuse to let it go further than in my head.

* * *

As Sherlock and John are leaving Sherlock pulls away from John, comes over to our table, "Be wary Lestrade," and walks away.

* * *

Damn him! I see how uncomfortable Greg has now become.

         "Greg, understand, I value our friendship and would do nothing to harm it."

         "Mycroft, don't worry about it." 

My hand briefly touches his, and I pull it away just as quickly. But, thinking to myself, I'd love to kiss him. To break down that wall he has built up, to find the interior of the man in those three-piece suits.

* * *

Driving Greg home I tell him I won't be around until early summer. I'm traveling again.

         "Please text me occasionally. Or call. Let me know how things are going."

         "Greg, I'll try my best. Don't work too hard yourself."

* * *

True to my word I keep the communication up with Greg while being an ambassador, diplomat, courier and anything else my government wishes me to do. It's all business. Boring. Now that I know Greg, the world is only brighter when with him.

* * *

          _Greg, I'm on my way home. Can we meet for dinner Tuesday night?_

          _Sorry, have to be with my daughter then. What about the next Wednesday_

          _fine. How about you take me for that pizza you're always talking about_

          _laughs, my pleasure. pizza and beer._

          _I'll meet you at your place at seven_

* * *

Seeing Greg again makes the wait worthwhile. My heart does the proverbial skipping a beat.

At the pizza restaurant, this time it's Greg doing the ordering.

         "Luigi, one pie, two slices plain, two mushroom and onions, two pepperoni, and two the works. And beer for us please." 

It's a small place, a dozen tables, very plainly decorated with red and white checkered tablecloths, candles in a small glass and Italian music in the background.

The pizza is brought to the table, set in the middle and paper plates given to us. Really? Simplistic isn't it, I think.

* * *

Greg takes a slice from each of the different pieces, four in all and sets the mess on my plate.

         "Try each one and see which you like best."

He holds up his beer, and we clink glasses.

I look for a fork and knife, and Greg, realizing it, laughs, shakes his head no.

         "Finger food Mycroft. And if you're afraid of getting that expensive suit dirty tuck a napkin under your collar."

My look of disdain makes him bubble with laughter.

         "Come on Myc. Loosen up."

         " A new adventure I've never had, with a new name, and enjoying all of it."

Picking up the pizza and following Greg's lead, I take a bite of each type. I like the onions and mushrooms the best.

We leave the pizzeria, and Greg opts to walk home since the place is close to his flat.

* * *

I sadly leave him and return to my house and have to admit that my life now is much more fulfilling with Greg around.

* * *

My department has offered me a trip to New York for a special occasion. It's now summer, and I haven't seen Greg since the spring. Phone calls and texts are about all I can manage. The trip is unique, and I am sure Greg will revel in it.

         "Greg, have you some time to talk?"

         "Yes, I do. What's up?" 

His voice ringing in my head and heart.

         "I have the opportunity to borrow a yacht for the July Fourth celebration in America. I have never seen the Macys fireworks in person, only on the telly. I thought you might like to join me for this. We can fly over and stay the night on the boat. What do you say to that?"

My voice prickling with excitement, although my hands are shaking.

         "Wow, wow!"

Now that's something spectacular! A yacht, he says, no less.

         "Yes, I would fucking love to join you, I mean, you know what I mean," laughing at myself.

         "We leave next Saturday. I'll pick you up."

         "I'll have bags packed and waiting for you."

* * *

I get a surprise visit to my office at the police station late the next day, from John Watson, Sherlock's partner.

         "Greg, I'd like to talk to you without Sherlock around."

I sit up straight in my chair, always a worry about my brother, "Something not right John?"

         "No, just don't want the man hearing what I have to say. Greg, you know that it took a long time before Sherlock and I became an actual couple. What changed it all? I pounced."

         "You pounced?" 

At first, I don't get the meaning and then, like a flash of light I get it. John notices my face and his mouth twitches into a smile.

         " Let me explain further. Sherlock has deduced that Mycroft is in love with you but won't do anything. He's afraid of being hurt."

         " He really thinks that?" as skeptical as I am about this showing in my voice.

         "The Holmes boys have serious relationship problems. I walked on eggshells for years, afraid to do anything. I reasoned that it was better to maintain some friendship and be near him than lose him entirely," he stops, quiet a moment as he watches me.

         "One day that came to a head when, and I was not drunk, I leaned in for a kiss. At first, he ran away, but then came back and that was it. So, Greg, I'm telling you to find a time and pounce. Give it a try. You've known each other how long?"

         "Almost three years now," realization coming to me.

         "Think about it," as he gets up, shakes my hand and leaves.

* * *

This yacht trip might be just the time to 'pounce' as John put it.

* * *

Flying to New York in my private jet we play a game of chess and Greg wins. How surprising to me! Almost all of the time I play with colleagues I win.

* * *

The car drops us at the New York Yacht Club dock, and we walk to the end of the pier and the boat.

         "Holy, fucking shit Myc! It's a traveling house!" not caring what words I use or the not so nonchalant way I look.

         "It's only seventy feet, Greg," climbing up the gangplank to board and the crew prepares to cast off.

         "Only seventy fucking feet. You say it like it's a one bedroom flat. Sorry for the language, but when I'm at a loss that's what I do."

* * *

The captain introduces himself along with various other members of the staff. Greg and I are on the deck watching the sailors untie, and push off the dock. We both find our staterooms. And again Greg is all eyes, taking in the king-size beds in each, the green and blue coloring of the material as well as the walls. Each has a separate bathroom or head as it's called on board a ship.

          "Myc, do you know this kitchen is bigger than mine at home?" grabbing a strawberry off the plate on the counter. He bites into it and the juice dribbles onto his lips.

Dribbles onto his lips, those lips, I turn away, emotion deep in me.

Then the lounge area, where a full-size television, two sofas, a bar and three armchairs make up the furniture. All in light brown and greens.

* * *

Heading out into the Hudson to position ourselves for the best view of the fireworks, Greg and I return to the deck.

Greg is wearing a blue and green plaid shirt and khaki trousers with black trainers, and I'm wearing only a light linen shirt and brown trousers with white trainers. No need to don jackets just yet. 

I light lunch is served, mainly fish and salad. A Channing Daughters Vino Blanco white wine goes with the meal. A creamy texture. White peach, nectarine, green apple and lemony flavors, floral notes.

          "Did you pick this wine out Myc? It's really nice."

          "Yes, I did and thank you."

We sit out in the sun, watching the river traffic. Most of the time we don't talk, but I delight as Greg is pointing out each of the buildings, naming them. He's done his homework. His excitement is catching as he comments on the barges, tugs and smaller vessels on the river.

* * *

Our dinner is served in the saloon and is a tossed pear salad; a duck fat seared scallops over cheddar duck corn grits and haricot verts.

Greg hums his rapture over the food. He's learning about fine dining. And I'm learning about pizza, chortling to myself.

          "We'll have dessert outside on the deck," Mycroft tells the waiter.

Outside it's darkening, and there are a sprinkling of clouds in the sky.

* * *

Dessert is a hot fudge sundae, vanilla ice cream with creme filled mini donuts. And champagne.

* * *

We turn our lounge chairs toward the area where the fireworks will be going off.

The music, coordinated with the pyrotechnics, makes for a breathless display.

I've never seen this except on the telly, and when it starts, I'm just as flabbergasted as my lovely police officer next to me. Both Greg and I are up off the lounge chairs and watch standing at the railing, turning in all directions. It seems the lights, sounds, colors are coming at us, filling a deep-seated, euphoric part of us. Our yells and sighs echo with the other boat people.

* * *

After it's over, the vessels, large and small, begin blowing horns and whistles.

Both of us still stand at the railing, unwilling to let the moment go. 

Now, Greg, go pounce, I think to myself. This moment might not come again.

* * *

Of a sudden, Greg moves against me, his hand around my neck, reaches in and kisses me. My surprise, my breath, my insides, do a turn. I kiss back. I want more. No! Impossible!

* * *

I push him away and head inside to my stateroom. Out of breath and shaking. No, I won't, can't let this happen. We are friends. And only friends.

When Mycroft pushes away and runs inside, I know I've made a mistake. I pounced, but it didn't work.

I sit down on the lounge chair to think. But he did start to kiss me back. So, what is going on?

* * *

The rest of the trip, the car rides, the plane ride, has us speaking in stilted sentences and only when needed. 

We avoid each other as much as we can in close quarters.

I drop Greg off without a word, and he ventures nothing. As he leaves the car and walks away, I know this is the end.

* * *

Weeks pass, and neither of us calls or text. Anthea sees how miserable I am.

          "Greg was a great man for you. Mycroft, whatever happened and how can it be mended?" 

I sadly shake my head no.

* * *

One night, after midnight, when I'm tossing and turning in bed, my mind on Greg, I decided to step up and let him know why this decision of mine. Not a natural conclusion to come to, lots of anguish in my revealing this to a stranger. But, Greg's not a stranger anymore, is he?

* * *

I call the car and drive to his flat. I knock on the door and after a minute a sleepy, tousled hair in PJs, Greg opens it.

          "Mycroft, what-"

          "May I come in even though the hour is late. I have something weighty on my mind. I need to enlighten you on my actions and my reasoning behind them."

          "Sure, um, sit. No wait, I got home from a late conference, and there's stuff all over the chairs." 

He's throwing clothes and folders around for us to sit on the sofa.

Greg's in his PJs, and me wearing a simple green shirt and black trousers.

Facing each other, with our legs tangled messily on the sofa. Being tall, this means that our legs are curled up, and touching.

How do I start? How to portray what is my fear?  
Something must be so important to Mycroft that he comes to me so late at night? Patience, Greg. Let him lead.

          "Tea, Mycroft? A drink of something stronger?"

          "No," taking a big breath and exhaling.

          "Greg, what I'm about to relate to you no one has ever heard. No one, do you understand?"

He dips his head yes.

          "Don't interrupt me, don't even try. If you do, I may not get this out."

          "The floor is yours, Mycroft."

A big breath, a shivering inside me, my head turned not to look directly at my friend but down at our legs, so close to each other.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"At seventeen I was in university and met a young fellow. Vincent was his name. He was the son of an ambassador, most of the university students were from prominent families. We hung out together, and that's when I discovered my tendency towards men.  
Vincent was my first lover, male or female, and as a first, I fell heavily. I won't go into the details of it, no need.  
For a few months, everything was good. I was flying high. One weekend-one-horrid weekend-," shaky voice.

I'm going to fall apart. My hands clench into fists, my stomach tightens, I feel faint.

          "I think tea would be nice Greg," my need is to get myself back together again. Determined to let this out once and for all. Let Greg know what I am.

* * *

          "Mycroft, you don't have to," as I reach my hand out then quickly pull it back.

          "No, I have to. Have to let you know."

Greg pulls his feet to the floor and goes into the kitchen.  
I get up, find the bathroom to pee. Looking into the mirror my face is pale. My hands unsteady.  
Back onto the sofa Greg brings in the teapot and cups, pours for both of us, and we assume the same positions as before, but with cups in hand.

* * *

          "That- that weekend I was staying at Vincent's house. His parents were in Italy, and we were alone. We gathered a few close classmates in for a party, and as we were not big drinkers, it began as sitting and chatting.  
There were four besides Vincent and I. I knew all of them were gay. It was a secret that we kept quiet amongst ourselves." I pause, taking a sip of tea.

* * *

But the closeness is too much at this point. I chose to stand and sit in the lounge chair across from Greg. Placing the cup on the floor, tea still in it, I knew now was the moment of truth.

* * *

          "At some point, they got into the drink, I only had a glass, not being in love with liquor. Jeff, imbibing a lot began telling gay jokes and it evolved into penises and their size. Jeff opened his fly and pulled out his to demonstrate how big he was. Showing off and goading everyone to join in, and I was provoked by Vincent to follow suit. I had very little drink and was only slightly high."  
Out of all of them, I was the only one not erect. The teasing began. How could I not have a hard-on when all these gorgeous pricks, no cocks, they called them, were available." 

The teacup in my hand I take a large drink, almost choking on it, my tongue sticking to my palate.

Greg stands, and my hand flutters up to stop him, shaking. Another breath, almost a sob crosses my lips.

          "Please sit over there. I can't continue with you close to me."

* * *

          "They began to handle their penises, and I was not going to stay for this. I turned away, intending to leave the room.  
One of the boys, I don't remember who began to taunt Vincent about his chicken-lover. I remember them chanting that. Chicken-lover.  
I had just stepped out the door when Vincent's arm was around me, dragging me back into the sitting room. He threw me on the sofa his mouth on my penis, in front of all of them. I struggled and screamed.  
That only seemed to inflame them, and they held me down, letting Vincent have-." 

I stop, I can't continue, I straighten up from the chair and over to look out the window, seeing nothing. I have to do this.

* * *

          "As I was struggling they found more alcohol on the sideboard, opening a bottle, pouring it slowly down my throat. Nothing is coming from Vincent to indicate he cared what they were doing. The sexual tension in the room, the pheromones dominated. I remember most were drunk by then. Many of them still manhandling their penises."

          "Damn, shit, Mycroft. Don't do this to yourself. Don't go-"

Overriding his words I continue.

          " It all became a blur, I was their sex toy. Theirs to do as they wished. I struggled, kicking, biting, punching but there were too many, holding me, giving me more alcohol, hitting me to keep me down and quiet. Vincent was a participant."

I imagine Greg can smell the terror rolling off me. Reliving it again, being there in my mind. My shirt is a sweaty mess, hands slippery, brow dripping. My legs ready to give out I find the chair again, blindly dropping into it.

          "Stop now, I've heard enough. Dear fucking god."

          "No, no, have to persevere. You have to know, to understand me."

          "There were fingers up my derriere, who's I didn't know. It only got worse. At some point, someone's semen was on my chest. I was the center of a gang bang."

* * *

And now the tears are running down, sickening, ready to faint. To run out into the street, blindly, screaming, forgetting Greg, forgetting all.

* * *

I move over towards his chair, go behind, my hand touching his shirt, wet from his distress. Abhorrence, disgust, anger, pity, sympathy, all went through me. If I could, I would hold him close, caressing it all away.

          "Greg, go away. Don't touch me," I very harshly exclaim, too loudly. 

He steps back, sits on the sofa leaning towards me, as close to me as possible. His sympathy oozing out.

          "Each of the boys had their way with me as much as I tried to fight. God, how I fought!  
The whiskey had hold of me, my body rubber. Each time they thought the effect was wearing off, they gave me more. I don't know how many penises were in me how many times, how many I had in my mouth. As each one became sexually ready they took me again and again, sometimes one in each of my openings."  
Most of the time they were laughing and joking about who had come the most, who had the biggest and who had fucked me the best.  
As daylight shown through the shades, they sobered up, understanding registering, along with guilt.  
Vincent was the one who cleaned me up, drove me home in my car.  
My parents were not around, being at one of their vacation spots. It took me days to recover from the bruises and lacerations, and my rear was all torn.  
"I went back to school days later, had to finish. Vincent ignored me after that, as did all the other boys. Like it never happened. I never spoke to any of them.  
That was my only encounter with sex. And yes, to my utter shame there were moments when I-when I felt orgasms. They made me enjoy it. No one has ever touched me since."

* * *

Embarrassed, exhausted, still with tears running down my face from the telling, I have my head down.

* * *

The world has crashed down on me. All I can do is wait, see what Mycroft does. He shrinks back into the chair.

* * *

          "Why didn't you tell someone?"

I look at Greg with a smirk, "Come on, Greg, these were all boys from well-placed families. They would have denied it, and that would be the end. I would be called a liar."

          "What about your parents?"

          "My parents were too busy being government agents and again, would not have been receptive to exposing these boys."

          "Dear fucking God, Mycroft, no wonder! I'm sure you've looked into this but have you tried therapy?"

          "Word gets around in this community, and if it ever leaked my position would be jeopardized. So no."

* * *

My throat dry, my body disgustingly tired, worn, I can't stand up. My eyes close. Oppressive silence.

          "Don't misunderstand me Greg Lestrade, I have a deep desire for you, I even think I might love you. But I can't come to you a broken man. I'm sorry for this and for leading you to the possibility of romance. Let me leave and let's go our separate lives."

* * *

Pulling myself out of the chair I head to the door, and Greg jumps up, runs to me and places himself between me and the door.

          "No, it's not that easy. You can't toss away the emotions, the warmth we have. There must be some way to work on this.To be honest. Mycroft, I don't care if I never touch you. I want to be with you. To be your companion in whatever manner you want."

          "Let me go, Greg, before I crumble before you. Let's both ponder on this for awhile. Pleaaasseee, let me go," I say as my words come out weak. 

Greg steps aside and with a choked voice, "I'll let you go, but you must think about this. I want you, Mycroft Holmes, in whatever capacity you see fit. I won't call or text you. It's up to you to decide if this relationship will be or not."

With that he steps away from the door, I open it, rush out and into my car and home. The nightmare of that sick weekend haunts me over and over.

* * *

          "There's a visitor in your office, " Sally smirks, as I walk into the station the next morning. It's Sherlock, lounging in my chair.

          "What?" annoyed to see him. My mind is full of his brother, last night's events.

He tosses a piece of paper on the desk, walks around to be next to me.

          "The key code to the back gate and the back door of his house. Use it." 

A hand on my shoulder, almost a pat and he's out the door. Sherlock does have a soft spot for his brother, only he won't admit it.

* * *

I did tell Mycroft I wouldn't go near him. But, desperate times call for desperate moves.

That night I slip into the house, his butler recognizes me and doesn't sound the alarm. Mycroft is in the kitchen. His apron on, he's baking.

His eyes open wide in surprise. I expect him to throw me out, but without a word, he continues beating the eggs.

* * *

Taking a seat on the stool, watching his hands roll the dough out, I wait. Heart beating a mile, dry, a slight shaking of my hands which I keep tucked under my thighs.

As he puts the pies in the oven, I rise and go out of his house the way I came. Not a sound escapes our lips. I must have stayed no more than an hour.

* * *

And it begins. Each time I do this, whether in the morning or at night, no sound, no recognition, my presence alone is enough. Whether he's reading, working at his desk on some unknown political thing, cooking or watching telly, it's enough.

* * *

On one morning as I'm entering the butler lets me know that Mycroft is away. I text Anthea and find he's called to France. She'll text me when he's home. Disappointed that he couldn't tell me, I go to work.

* * *

I can't think, can't eat, can't sleep. Greg Lestrade is persistently on my mind. He's the man I want to be with, to share my life. But I don't know how. Don't know how to love him properly.

This constant reminder of him, the times he's at my house, never demanding and it's taking its toll. My nerves are strained.

* * *

I get away to my house in France.

* * *

A murder case is on the table, which has Sherlock and John at my side. Sherlock being the dick he habitually is with the police force. As he finishes up with the corpse, he corrals me, pulling me away from the crowd of police and reporters.

          "My brother's an idiot. Don't know what's wrong with him. He's pining", only the Holmes boys would use that word.

          "He'll be home Saturday," pushing something into my hand, paper, he leaves to be with John. John turns, giving me a thumbs up sign. It's the new key code for Mycroft's house. Again the caring for his brother. 

* * *

I wait til Monday night to enter the house. Tiptoeing around, his man points in the direction of the office. I smile. Everyone seems to be on my side.

The door is open, and I stand there.

Mycroft jumps, looks up from his papers, sees me, and with a sigh, "Greg, please leave. You told me you weren't- that it was my decision. As you see, I haven't called or text you."

          "Sorry, Myc, you don't get rid of me. I made a mistake in saying that." 

Turning to leave, "Greg, sit down," his words harsh, but then in a quieter tone, "please."  
The plush leather seat is not enough to relieve my anxiety. What next?

          "What do you expect?"

          "A quiet friendship. Someone to talk to, eat dinner, have pies, watch silly movies. That and nothing more."

At first, I think I hit a note, but his eyes dart back to his paperwork, shutting me out, I leave. But determined to continue my routine, to break him down.

* * *

One evening again in his house, being there, it's obvious this is all right because Mycroft hasn't changed the key code.  
He's cooking, and there's music playing. It's elevator music, quieting and nice.

          "Do you know how to dance, Mycroft?'

          "Yes, Greg. We were required by Mummy to take dancing lessons. Every well-bred child had to learn."

          "Dance with me. Take my hand and show me a waltz, that's what this music is, right?" 

His eyes fly open wide, scared.

Around the counter to me, his hands move to mine, our arms outstretched, keeping that arm's length, he waltzes around the kitchen with me. The song ends and very self consciously he moves back, putting the counter between us. That's a start, and without any more talk, I leave.

* * *

On the nights he cooking or baking, there's music playing, and we waltz, hands only, outstretched, a mile wide gulf between our bodies. Dancing, that's breaking a barrier.

* * *

Calling up John.  


          "I understand you and Sherlock go dancing once a month. Where is it you go?"

          "Well, are you ready to be out Greg, because it's an LGBT group. And is Mycroft?"

          "Hmm, didn't think about it. Will see what he says."  
John gives me the time and place.

* * *

I have to make time to see my daughter. It's her birthday, and that means missing a night at Mycroft's. Encouraging though, because I receive a text from him.

          _Why aren't you here_

          _Birthday dinner for Angela. see you tomorrow night._

* * *

Meantime all the police at the station know that I'm occupied with something because I don't take evening calls if possible. The only one who knows is Sally Donovan. She's been a dear in deflecting questions. Most of them assume I'm seeing and shagging a woman.

* * *

I now have a one-up with Mycroft expecting my nightly visits. Time to try some strategy.  
Without texting or calling, I no-show for a week.

_Stop playing me, Greg. I know what you're doing._  
Grinning to myself, as I surmise it's working.

_Do you want to see me_  
No answer. No need for one.

* * *

That night in the house and there are two pieces of apple pie, warmed up, with tea, sitting on the kitchen counter.  
Smiling slightly, in the way that Mycroft smiles, I dip into the pie. No conversing.

When finished and our plates in the dishwasher I decide to pose the question.  
Before I can Mycroft speaks," I'm detecting something important. Let's go into the sitting room."  
At first, he bends to sit on the sofa, changing his mind to the chair. I use the sofa.

          "Mycroft, I'd like to continue dancing. Would you consider going out? To a public place?" 

His head lifts, "That would mean-."  
I interrupt, "yes, coming out. I'm willing-" and let it stand.

          "No, no" after a moment though."Cant do that."

Aha, I'm ready with a counteroffer.

I had found out about this place from John and checked it out.

He moves to the sideboard and pours us both some of his excellent whiskey, of which one glass goes to me.

          "Good," standing and taking a sip, "there's one tomorrow night. Let me pick you up."

* * *

Nervous isn't the word for this. I understand Greg is trying to move me further along, to assist me. Dancing in public, with a man, not something I would consider, but it's Greg.

* * *

At the dance studio, there are five couples. We greet each other with hellos and nods.

One couple, both black men, is tall, slim and I must admit making a striking image as they twirl around the floor.

A waltz is playing; I stand to take Mycroft on the floor, he grips my hands, so tight as if to crush my bones.  
But to my surprise, as we start, his arm goes around my waist, still holding me far from him. We are in dance position, around the floor.

          "You're a quick learner, Greg." I can't say a thing, my concentration is on the dance, on Mycroft's hand on my waist.

* * *

A simple two-step is next and Mycroft, without hesitation, pulls me on the floor and leads me into the dance.  
We sit out the next set as they are Spanish dances of which I have no idea how to do.

          "You'll have to teach me," I whisper to Mycroft, seeing the two couples move to the tango.

There's a break, and we go to the refreshment table to partake in lemonade and cookies.

* * *

One of the black men steps to Mycroft, "would you dance with me? You're a very skilled man."  
I step between, sensing Mycroft's tightening, "Thanks, but for now, we want to keep to ourselves."  
Laughing heartily, "I get it, new at this." His meaning more than the dancing.

          "Take me home Greg," the tension evident in his stance.

* * *

In the car, "come tomorrow and I'll teach you more dancing."

Even with that little glitch he still wants. I see the walls starting to crack.

* * *

Each night now becomes a lesson in dance. He's still holding me at a distance, but there is more touching.

* * *

How I look forward to Greg and our dancing! He learns quickly and doesn't upset the boundaries I've placed.

* * *

The dance floor is not as crowded this week. But Pete and Alex are there; we exchanged names last time.  
Mycroft leads me onto the floor for a cha-cha, then a waltz. I'm excited to be able to have this with him.

          "For a new couple you certainly aren't into the huggy-feely thing," Pete begins, at the refreshment table.

          "Can I have the next dance, Greg?" Pete is tentatively asking.

          "Go ahead Greg, I'll sit this one out." 

Pete leads me into a two-step, his body much closer to me,"whats up with the boyfriend?" his head nods as we turn and I see Alex with him. Oh, no, not good, not good at all.

          "Excuse me, Pete." Breaking away leaving Pete on the floor, my feet take me to Mycroft.

          "Please tell this gentleman that I'd rather only dance with you," his eyes pleading with me. 

Pulling Alex away from Mycroft, "listen, pal, my boyfriend has only recently accepted his sexual preference, and it's still uncomfortable. Can you lay off right now?"

          "Sorry, will do. Didn't mean to upset him, or you." 

He moves to Pete's side, and I know they're discussing the situation. Pete gives me a thumbs up. The rest of the night we are left to dance on our own.

* * *

The situation continues with our dancing lessons at home. Sometimes we'll stop to have pie and tea. Our discussions are kept very impersonal.

* * *

We're informed by the instructor that in three weeks time the local studios will join together in one large group at a swanky hotel. There will be a buffet and live orchestra.

Asked if we would like to participate Mycroft, without hesitation agrees.

Outside, I question Mycroft, surprised that he even gave it a nod.

          "You do understand that you'll be dancing with me, a man, and people will see us?"

"Yes, I want to try this. To begin to understand what my acceptance of my sexuality means." 

* * *

Greg is all joyous, but inside my stomach lurches. Do I recognize the implications? That night, dressed in suits and ties we find the table where Pete and Alex are sitting.

          "Keep your cool, Mycroft, and welcome to the 'darker side,' his fingers gesture in a joke. I know Mycroft doesn't get the reference. 

Our first dance I lead Greg, my body now in rhythm with him. Absorbed at the moment I bring him closer to me, hearing the intake of breath, him heedful of the activity.

Each time we dance it seems Greg pulls me in closer until our bodies are touching. I'm stiff with anxiety, and Greg leans in to place a kiss on my cheek.

          "Loosen up; it won't hurt." 

Watching the other dancers as they weave around the floor I'm surprised how many are not even dancing, just rubbing against one another.

"Deducing what's going on, aren't you Mycroft? Want to get up and try? I warn you; it's sex personified."

          "Yes, but if it troubles me let's stop and no argument about it." 

SurpriseD by my eagerness to be that close, that intimate with someone. No, not someone. Greg!

* * *

I can feel every part of Greg's body, every muscle, every tendon.

It's disconcerting, but I continue.

We hardly move on the floor just basically twist ourselves around each other.

I detect Greg's trouser bulge, and all emotion erupts from me. I break away, turn towards the bathroom. Greg is rushing behind me.  
I head for a stall and close it, vomiting.

          "No one else is in the bathroom, talk to me Mycroft."

          "Can't, can't get that close,"choking, spitting up.

          "You mean you felt my hard on and it reminded you."

          "Yes, yes. Go away, leave me."

"Calm down. I'm not going anyplace. Ease off and when you're ready we'll leave. I'll be outside the bathroom."

* * *

It takes a few minutes to relax, and when I find Greg, he removes us from the ballroom quietly.

Before Greg gets out of the car, he turns to me, "I love you, I always will. Don't know what else to say or do for you."

* * *

I'm at my office. It's been over two weeks since my last time with Greg. There's a commotion outside the door, and I hear both Sherlock and Anthea with raised voices. The door swings open, "Damn, it, this is my brother Anthea, stop trying to protect him. He's not yours, never will be. Now get out and shut the door."  
Slamming it behind her and inspects me with those penetrating hazel eyes.

* * *

He approaches my desk, takes off his gloves, "Mycroft, I know you're the older, but sometimes we all need-oh never mind the platitudes. Get out from behind the desk and sit with me on the couch, please?" 

Sherlock has not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I'm frankly amazed, so without thinking I join him on the couch facing him.

          " I know that you love Greg and what's happening with you two is a mystery. You've supported me through so much. Please, tell me and let me help you, for once."

* * *

Without understanding why, and being surprised by it, I begin sobbing heavily. 

Sherlock is so taken aback his body closes to mine, and his arms are around me, holding me and quieting me with small kisses on my head. As I slow down, he lets me go, gets some tissues and gently wipes my face and nose. I feel like the younger brother this time around.

* * *

          "Sherlock, Sherlock, help me"

          "I'm here, what's the problem?"

          " I have to tell you, I can't contain it any longer," sitting in a chair and indicating to Sherlock to sit on the next one.

He walks to the door, opening it and calls to Anthea,"No one is to be admitted to this office until Mycroft himself says so. And that includes phone calls," his voice authoritative.

Bringing his chair up to mine, he takes my hands, "Continue."

I inhale deeply, and in exhaling, all comes out. I relate the whole incident with Vincent and that night, from start to finish. Not leaving out or omitting even the language. When finished, head hung low, Sherlock stands and gets both of us some whiskey from the sideboard.

"Don't drink it all at once, Mycroft. And, have you told Greg about this?"

I nod yes, and both of us sit quietly and contemplate the whole picture.

* * *

"There are some consequences here. We can find the perpetrators and - or you can decide to go on with your life in a new way. Mycroft, as you know John has steadily been my rock. He anchors me. Greg would be the same for you."

          "Go to him, Mycroft. Don't be the asshole I was. It took John and all his kindness, his unwillingness to give up on me to finally get my guard down." 

With that he moves out of the office, telling Anthea that if she goes in without my permission, he'll eat her alive. That's my brother Sherlock for you.

* * *

          _Let's continue dancing_ I text Greg.

          _Whoo, hoo! be over tonight._

* * *

Our dancing takes on a new dimension. We dance tightly, keeping our lower extremities far enough away not to distract.

* * *

Oh shit, oh bloody hell!

I've been handed a folder by Sally Donovan, my Sargeant, on a killer we've been trying to track down. He's committed three murders in the last five weeks, and the MI5 has tracked down who he is. This folder means more than just a killer. It could be a death knell for my relationship with Mycroft. He's bound to find out.

* * *

Sherlock bursts into my office, John behind him.

          "My brother knows," picking up the folder, throwing it across the room, in a rage.

          "Damn fuck, Sherlock, now what?" 

I can't contain my shaking. John picks up the file, shuffles the papers back, "Go to him right now, Greg. He's in his office. We came from there; he won't talk, just staring, shaking."  
Out the door, my coat hanging off me, I speed over to the government office complex, uncaring if I get stopped.

* * *

          "What's going on Greg?" Anthea looks troubled. Not bothering to answer her I open the door-finding Mycroft, white-faced, staring.

          "I know Mycroft, It's him, the maniac, Vincent Robinson. You're-" staring at Mycroft as he sits behind his desk, not a word, not a muscle moving.

          "Say something, curse, anything. I'm here."

          "Greg, I can't go home. Don't want to sleep-the nightmares-"

          "Okay, let's think this through. You haven't seen him since university, heck he may not even know you." 

Mycroft snickers.

          "Yea, with your name he'll remember you, all right. You've got to trust the police, and your brother to handle this crap." 

Running my hand through my hair, my intent to keep Mycroft calm. Reasoning this through.

          "I'm going to my house, pack a bag, join you at your place. Permanently. At least until he's apprehended. I'm not leaving you alone for a second." 

Mycroft's surprised at this announcement, I can tell, still doesn't speak.

          "I'll be with you as much as I can be. Might even try to get time off."

          "Are you suggesting he might come for me?"A tremor in his voice.

          "No, but you've said what you fear. That he might, why I don't know and don't care."

          "I've got security around the house."

          "I know, double it if it will put you at ease."

* * *

Once at Mycroft's I bring my clothes into the spare bedroom. 

It's tidy, as is the whole house. The view is toward the back where a red maple stands. The tree is bare of leaves now, winter is here. My room, as I'll call it has a roll-top desk, rolling chair, lounge chair and a king size bed. Pillows abound on it.

* * *

Mycroft's room is across from mine. A sitting room with the bedroom towards the rear. I had told Mycroft not to cook, but he likes it so much. A calming effect he calls it.

Our dinner finished, we play chess, watch tv and to sleep.

* * *

Sometime during the night, I'm awakened by screams. 

Off the bed quickly, I enter the hall where his man, Jeffrey, is outside the open door of Mycroft's. That's where the cacophony is coming.

Easing toward the bed, he's tossing furiously, hands held in the air as if to stop someone. I avoid the arms, placing myself on the mattress sideways to him, and gently brush my fingers over his face, all the while murmuring, "Mycroft, it's Greg, it's Greg. I'm here. You're not in danger. I'm beside you."

His arms relaxed, down to his side, and his eyes open, tears running.

* * *

          "Greg, Greg, help me." 

          "I'm right here, my love, right here."

          "Don't leave, the nightmares, the-," turning his face away as if in embarrassment.

          "No reason to be ashamed. What do you want?"

With his head almost hidden in the pillow, "stay with me here, in the bed."

Surprised and worried for him, I slide into the bed, under the covers. Afraid to touch him. I notice that Jeffrey has moved away from the room.

          "Mycroft, sleep now." His head turns to me in the nearly dark room. Grasping my hand in his, that's how we sleep.

* * *

The next morning I dress for work but check on Mycroft first. He's in his office downstairs, not a word passes about last night.

          "I'll bring home Thai for dinner." His face turned up to me, "Greg-?" the question lingering. 

          "I know, cuddling tonight is an option." My joy at seeing the littlest of smiles is considerable. Enough to get me through the day.

* * *

Meantime the full force and focus are on finding Vincent. Police, MI5. Sherlock and John and myself, it's doubly so, to capture this criminal.

It takes over three weeks to find him and place him in jail. A sigh of relief, a bit. A disappointment for me in a way. I won't be sharing Mycroft's bed anymore. Cuddling was fantastic, I felt. Our bodies got used to each other's nooks and crannies.

* * *

          "Greg, get over to the prison, right now, do you hear me, right now," is the phone call I receive from Sherlock. Not asking questions I take the car to the gates of the prison, show my card and get in.

          "Mycroft is over at Vincent Robinson's cell. Sherlock told me to direct you there," the prison guard tells me and points down the hall. And there stands Mycroft, in front of that man's cubicle. My hand drops on his shoulder; he acknowledges me with a pat.

          "Oh, you've got a companion I see."

          "Greg, leave us alone." his tone hard, and nervous sounding.

          "Nope, staying right here."

Mycroft half turns his face, a scowl on it, as Vincent cackles. Yes, that's the only word for it-cackle.

Both men steely-eyed. Mycroft, cold, calculating voice asking, not pleading, asking.

          "Vincent, what happened that night. We never talked about it. Why, why did this occur, is what I want to know. Why did you join in?"

          "Let's have a cozy, but without your man." I don't want Mycroft to beg me to leave within this man's hearing, and so I take off.

          "I'll be in the waiting room for you."

Taking off down the hall, can't sit, instead, pace up and down the waiting room.

          _Greg, is he alright_

It's Sherlock.

          _he's with Vincent, he doesn't want me there._

          _Vincent behind bars I assume._

          _Give kudos to Mycroft for restraining himself. I know he could have Vincent out of the cell._

          _Text me as soon as you can. I trust you_

          _Thanks_

* * *

          "Did it ruin your life Mycroft? You, the upright, composed, self-controlled," his voice rising, "self-possessed bastard. Even in bed, you controlled it all, when we fucked, where and how. And use the word cock or fuck? Not you!. Did you know I grew to despise you? I was about to give you up, to throw you away. Instead, I threw you to the dogs." 

* * *

Listening to his words, my stomach crawling, keeping my composure without allowing this demented man to see me suffering. Don't let him know you're agitated, flustered With a seeming detached exterior; I ask a question that has haunted me.

          "Did you plan it?" Peals of laughter from that mouth. 

          "Yes you bugger, it was all figured out. We went on longer than I expected it to go. We were going to rape you, keep you drunk for a few hours. Didn't count on it being so fucking great, that we'd spend more time doing it."

          "What made you turn to crime and murder?"

          "Now that's none of your business. Go back to your playmate. I'm not going acknowledge you anymore. You're yesterdays history. Bye Mycroft," turning away in his cell, his laugh following, mocking me.

* * *

I walk away and as I do I repeat to myself, "Vincent Robinson, you can no longer hurt me. I take back myself, my power."

* * *

Finding Greg, holding up my hand to stop any discussion I allow him to take me home. He urges me to let him stay the night; I veto it. Time for myself, time to cogitate on events, past and present.

* * *

I text Mycroft the next day, three times, getting no answer.

          _Greg, let him alone. He needs time._

The message from Sherlock. The two men can talk without vocalizing. They read each other, even when not in the same space. I agonize for days, should I go there, stay away?

* * *

John joins me at the pub and our discussion is centered around the rugby matches.

          "Greg, Sherlock has been keeping a close watch on Mycroft. He's been doing strange things, well, strange for him. Outside lots, sitting in the park, people watching you might say. His work is being handled by Anthea."

          "I worry more about his sleeping. He has nightmares."

          "Sherlock has seen to it that he has meds, light ones. It amazes me how kind younger brother is now. Be patient. He'll come around."

Patience, all I have right now is patience. And that's growing hard to keep.

* * *

During the next days, I spend wandering around the streets of London, no bodyguard this time. The places where Greg might be, the police station, his favorite cafe, are all avoided.

It's bloody cold out, but I accept it. It's what I do that makes a difference, and that is noticing other people, wondering about their lives, their nightmares.

Nights are impossible for me. I'm frightened of falling asleep and dreaming. Those dreams haunt me throughout the dark hours. Slowly they begin to dissipate.

* * *

Is it time to reunite with Greg? Can I go further than a friendship? Can I? Well, you upright, composed, self-controlled, to quote a specific person, it's time to find out.

* * *

Texting Greg Lestrade.

          I'm willing to give us more than a friendship. Your place or mine.

          _Shit, don't throw jokes like that at me_

          _Not joking. Your place or mine. Never mind, the car will pick you up at six. I'll cook a light dinner. Might think of staying over._

          _Huh? Stop. Way too fast for me_

          _Sigh, yes or no, keep up with me Greg._

          _Yes, Yes._

* * *

How nervous, jumpy and edgy am as I drop a pan, can't remember the recipe for the chicken cashew stir fry, made dozens of times by heart, and have to look it up. 

Greg is in the house, and I yell that I'm in the kitchen. As he enters, I can tell he's just as fearful as I. Almost walking on tiptoes.

I clear my throat, "dinner is almost ready. Would you pour the wine? I have it on the table in the dining room."

I bring out the Chinese wok on a trivet along with a tossed salad with almonds, snap peas, carrots, onions, cole slaw and balsamic dressing.

We sit across from one another, at first the only words are" pass the-" each afraid to say anything more direct. "So, what brought this on?"

I shrug," time to move forward. Find a new world."

The meal is over. Greg and I don't get up but don't progress any further. I'm not sure where to go, what to do.

* * *

Greg stands and holds a hand out.  
"Shall we dance?"  
I find our favorite radio station. Quiet and slow. Putting it on I move into Greg's awaiting arms.

I lead, as usual, still with space between us. I'm the one who closes it up. Swaying back and forth I let all my wonderment over Greg pour out. My love, fondness, warmth, all sliding down my body. Every part of my body, our bodies. Staring at his lips, tempting me, I lean toward him for our first kiss. He's startled and pulls back, resting his eyes on mine.

          "Yes," scarcely a whisper.

We move as one, our lips finding each other, gentle, warm, barely touching. All good. Greg's mouth opens, waiting for me. My tongue enters, exploring, tentative.

He allows me all the freedom, gaining confidence as I go. My tongue sharply moves inside, more determined, as his eagerness matches mine, he pants a breath.

Greg steps away. He stares inquiringly at me as if to ask what next.

Taking his hand I lead him to the sofa where my hands roam down his chest.

          "Mycroft, darling, don't do anything-"

          "Let me tell you when I want to stop. Let me lead as I do when dancing." 

A quick kiss and the buttons of his shirt begin popping. I drape it over his shoulder, down his arms and he divests himself of the fabric, laying it on the floor.

My fingers begin the exploration of his chest, his arms, his neck. Oh, that neck. My tongue finds the spot next to his ear, and he intakes his breath.

          "Would you take off your shirt also?"

I start to unbutton but he stops me with his hands, and as he pops open each he licks the part just uncovered.  
Suddenly it catches me. I stiffen.

          "What is it Myc?"

          "I don't want any triggers right now- and you're-." He's looking at my trouser bump. 

          "Okay, my love, that's enough for now."

          "Greg, -" 

          "Stop, let's draw a line in the sand right now. Tensing up like you did, as the nightmare begins, we halt, stop it all. Continue another time. How's that sound?"

          "Yes, that makes good sense."

          "I'll say my goodnights now. How about the dance studio tomorrow?" 

We agree on it, and I take off.

* * *

At the studio, our first dance is the waltz, pulling Greg into me with assurance now. As we twirl around Pete gives me a high sign with a wink. I feel thunderstruck with the ease of fitting into Greg's arms. The night is a blur of impressions, Greg's chest, his fingers laced with mine, our feet entangling, our heartbeats the same. Pete is the first to us during a break in the dance.

          "Congrats you two, you look so good together. In sync." 

          "It's Mycroft's teaching, is what it is." 

          "Nah, something else. It looks like you have reconciled who you are. You're a couple." 

          "And now, can I ask you, Mycroft, for a dance?" Without a hesitancy I stand, let him pull me into the rhythm of a rumba. He leads, and the closeness of our bodies does not affect me.

* * *

Sitting on the sidelines, I watch Mycroft, dancing with pretty much a stranger, not worrying about the danger, about being abused. It's encouraging to me.

* * *

          "Come home with me, I have a peach pie made." 

          "Whoa, that's all the convincing I need." 

* * *

It's the smell, the warmth of the pie, the enjoyment of the company that compels me to walk Greg into my bedroom. Eyebrows raised, he backs off.

          "Trust me, Greg, give me credit." 

Again the process of unbuttoning our shirts, our lips an amalgam of tongue and teeth, hands rushing to partake sensations of flesh.

I nudge Greg onto the bed on his back and lie next to him. Brushing my face against his cheeks, licking around his ear and neck. I'm breathless with both wonder and fear. Greg takes it in, and I deduce he waits on my signals.

A nip of his neck with my teeth, my hand rests on his chest, caressing lightly.  
I lie back, relaxing in the joy of physical contact with him. Greg turns on his side, lips on my cheek, my nose and without warning tops me. My body stiffens again, and I cry out. He gets off quickly.

          "Oh god, what have I done. Shh, shh, my friend. That's a no-no then. Deep breaths, my love. No one is here to hurt you. I spoiled it didn't I?" 

I whisper, "sorry, so sorry."

          "There will be no sorry's Mycroft, only learning. Both of us have to get the knack of what is right and what is wrong. Eventually, we'll get to the place of all is right. Let's stop now." 

          "No, no let's go on."

          "There is no reason to push. Your body right now is on alert. We have time. Let's watch telly or a movie. Which one?" 

          "A movie, but what about you? "

          "Shit, I'm an adult, not some sex-driven teen. Now let's go down to the theatre and pick a movie to watch." Putting on our shirts, we pick "The Imitation Game." 

* * *

Tea is brought in along with chocolate and vanilla cookies. Part of me is absorbed in the movie, and other half is what do I want now? I want to stroke Greg, make love to him. My hand heads to his thigh, moving it closer to his crotch. Licking my dry lips, I choose to set my hand on his groin. He's not firm, but I see him move around to accommodate me. Should I stroke him? 

Finding it agreeable to myself my hand moves around his groin area. His reaction is swift. He raises his hips and begins to grow. I pull my fingers away. Uncomfortable with his motion, I have to leave him alone after that.

* * *

The movie ends, and the lights come on.

* * *

          "I shouldn't have done that. My mental state is so unpredictable, between what I crave and what sets off a recoil."

          "Mycroft, it's all good. Can we get rid of one fixation of yours? Don't apologize for your actions. I'm hypothesizing that you'll find certain things we do distressing. We'll live with that." 

          "That goes for you too. No justification for anything you do that might go wrong. Eventually, we'll get to the place of all is right"


End file.
